When Story Was The Show - Syd Field: I Don't Want To Be Forgotten

Syd Field: I Don’t Want to Be Forgotten

After the Screenwriters’ Summit, I got to know Syd Field really well.

I’d go to his house in Beverly Hills, and every time I arrived, he insisted on making me a cappuccino. He took real pride in it—careful, deliberate—and then stood there watching as I took the first sip, waiting for the reaction. That was Syd. Thoughtful, present, engaged in even the smallest moments. From there we’d head out to the guest house in his backyard and talk—some business, but mostly life.

Syd wasn’t what people expected. He was revered in the industry by major screenwriters, directors, studio heads and more. You’d think he had an ego. He didn’t. He was warm, grounded, almost Zen in the way he moved through the world. He was into meditation, and I used to give him a hard time about it, telling him I couldn’t quiet my mind no matter how hard I tried. He’d just laugh.

“Of course you can. You just need to practice.”

We had that conversation more than once.

And then one day, in the middle of one of those afternoons, the tone shifted.

We were sitting in the guest house like we always did, talking about nothing in particular, when he said something that stopped me cold.

“I don’t want to be forgotten.”

I didn’t know what to say. But I remember thinking in that split second, what the fu** is he talking about? He’s Syd Field—the man who started all of this! The author of Screenplay. The first person to take the idea of teaching screenwriting seriously and bring it out into the world, city by city, weekend by weekend. He made you feel you could write a great screenplay. He made it accessible.

And yet here he was, birds chirping in the background, quietly wondering if he might be forgotten.

When I got to know Syd, it was after more than a decade working with Robert McKee.

The two of them couldn’t have been more different.

McKee was forceful, relentless, completely secure in his intellect and authority. When he walked into a room, there was no question who was in charge. If someone asked a vague or self-important question, he didn’t let it slide—he’d go right at them. Sometimes brutally. I used to watch his body language and know when it was coming. He’d lock in, and that was it—someone was about to get a masterclass whether they wanted one or not.

When Brian Cox played him in Adaptation, people thought it was exaggerated.

Brian Cox wasn’t acting. He was channeling Robert McKee.

McKee knew exactly who he was and where he stood. There was no doubt in him.

Syd was the opposite. No ego. No need to dominate a room. He didn’t push himself forward—he’d teach, then step back and let it land.

McKee projected certainty, Syd created space.

Which is why, when he said, “I don’t want to be forgotten,” it hit the way it did.

I told him there was no way. I reminded him of what he had built, of the writers he had influenced, of the entire industry that had grown up around ideas he helped make accessible. But he didn’t quite see it that way. In his mind, he had been eclipsed.

Maybe he had.

While Syd had stepped back over time to write and stay closer to home, others, particularly McKee, stayed on the road, building momentum and building an audience. The landscape had shifted. Syd felt like he had lost ground.

So I told him I was going to show him he hadn’t. “Let’s do something in Los Angeles,” I said. “Let’s see what happens.”

At the time, Groupon was a big deal and I had a relationship with them, so we came up with a simple idea—a three-hour Syd Field master class. A “greatest hits” version of what he taught: structure, character, dialogue, the fundamentals of story. We’d do it Saturday and Sunday.

I figured if we sold 150 or 175 tickets across the weekend, we’d be in great shape, so I booked a ballroom at the Sheraton Gateway Hotel near LAX that could hold 200 people.

Syd wasn’t sure. His doubt fed into mine, but I didn’t tell him that. “Syd, we’ll be fine,” I said. “It’ll be great!”

Tickets went on sale a few weeks later in the evening, and that night I made a conscious decision not to look at the numbers. To be honest, I was a little nervous myself. What if I was wrong? What if my respect for Syd—as a teacher and as a human being—was clouding my sense of how well known he still was?

But we had time. Even if we didn’t get huge sales right off the bat, I could promote it. We’d be okay. All I could think was: if we sell 150 tickets, I’ll be thrilled, and Syd will be relieved.

The next morning I woke up, went straight to my laptop, and finally checked.

Almost 650 tickets had sold overnight.

650.

I just sat there staring at the screen for a second, trying to process it. My first thought was there was a glitch. I tested the “Buy” button to make sure it was working.

Then I picked up the phone—not to call Syd, but to call the hotel.

It was like seeing the shark in JAWS for the first time.

And this time it had a name.

Syd Field.

“I need a bigger room.”

After that, I emailed him.

“Syd — 650 tickets sold. Call me.”

He called twenty minutes later, and you could hear it immediately. He was excited, almost in disbelief, but what really came through was how grateful he was.

This wasn’t just another event.

This was Los Angeles. His audience. His peers.

And they had shown up in a way neither of us saw coming.

He wasn’t even close to forgotten.

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I’m currently working on a long-form piece about the golden age of story seminars (roughly 1999–2020)—a time when hundreds of writers would gather simply to learn how story works.

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